


The Language of Worship

by fractalsin



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Demigod!Kise, God!Kuroko, M/M, Sculptor!Midorima, half fake poetic half sex, three-way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 17:55:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19090135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractalsin/pseuds/fractalsin
Summary: Explorations of love between the men in Midorima’s lives, and Midorima himself, through the horizons of aesthetics.





	The Language of Worship

**Author's Note:**

> Literally no one:  
> Me: HAVE YOU EVER HEARD OF KIMIDOKURO/KIKUROMIDO/MIDOKIKURO  
> Everyone: *leaves*  
> Me: WAIT COME BACK  
> As for when I’m writing a midotaka fic, I actually have yet to find the perfect story idea for them. Maybe I will someday, haha. Enjoy this weird fusion of rambling and sex instead i’m sorry this author is a dumb nut. To add to everything, this is not proofread and kind of just a mess in general.

For someone who has acquainted himself with all existing forms of beauty, the last thing Kuroko has is delicacy, Midorima thinks, as he is once again cornered in his own workspace, vulnerable and exposed to, not necessarily criticism, but shrewdness on the part of Kuroko, who has more than enough to say about the sculpture currently displayed in the middle of the room, with all the glory and shame it contains.

Kuroko does not reach to touch it. Like almost all forms of art, he merely circles it and observes from afar, taking in every minute detail. This is understandably upsetting for a creator like Midorima, not because there is any pretense in these observations, but because Kuroko is looking so intently in the first place. This sculpture should have never seen the light of day, and yet here he is.

“It is beautiful.”

While people sing hymnal praises of Midorima’s work, Kuroko knows something they all don’t, and that is what frustrates Midorima, regardless of all the praise. _Intent, motive_ – such a thing should be completely separate from his craft when it is reviewed.

“You are pertaining to the subject?”

There’s an edge to Midorima’s remark. Kuroko does not fail to notice this as he looks away from the sculpture of a boy with smooth silk draped over his toned muscles, eyes curved in what can only be called a sultry smile.

“There is no doubt that Kise-kun is beautiful, yes. Can you tell me something, Midorima-kun?”

There are too many things wrong with that question, too many things that can be given away in his answers. He supposes he hasn’t been the most subtle, nor the most discreet, but he has never had plans of being. It is Kuroko who insists on stripping him down, piece by piece, till all that’s left is a man with no secrets at all.

“These depictions of Kise-kun are not perfectly truthful. Why is that?”

Midorima huffs then; Kuroko is also insistent on being disagreeable, but he half-knows that Kuroko is only attempting to ruffle his feathers. He lets it happen all the same. “They cannot be completely truthful, because they would lose their purpose. You, of all people, would know why people come to see art. You find beauty in this piece because it holds some grain of truth, but it is also not completely true.”

In this statue, Kise is the epitome of male seduction. Midorima will envision thousands kneeling at his feet, but this sculpture will beg to differ. After all, it is Kise who is kneeling, to someone who has yet to be carved into stone by his gifted hands.

“Will you make it a habit to sow distrust in me like this, Kuroko?”

“More so when you respond so kindly in turn.”

Kuroko pats Kise’s cheek before bidding Midorima goodbye. It takes only a moment, a few steps before Kuroko vanishes into blue dust and disperses.

Perhaps just to spite Kuroko, Midorima puts the sculpture on public display the next day. No one will ever know who possesses the yearning in Kise’s eyes, no one except Kuroko himself. Midorima hates that Kuroko can be too sure, and he easily could have proven the god of art wrong.

He merely does not want to. It’s growing to become a habit, more than he would like to admit.

* * *

 

Midorima’s fascination with Kise begins at a young age.

Just as Midorima’s gift develops, his eyes also mature into a pair of lenses that subject other things, other people, to scrutiny and simultaneously, admiration. He develops an appreciation for the ethereal and the extraordinary that is nearly unparalleled. His parents let this detail slip by until he makes his first sculpture, a small statue carved from wood no taller than the distance formed between his thumb and his pinkie finger. From there, they send him to the school for the arts, even though his father is a doctor, and most doctors’ sons become doctors too, succeeding in their father’s footsteps. Midorima, the son of the palace healer, is no such son.

The palaces are lacquered in ornamental decoration, so much that the people who reside within it begin to follow its example. Midorima has heard enough stories to know that the fixation for beauty dates ages back, but not necessarily to the days when civilization had been walking on infant feet, when people cared only for basic necessity. 

He grows up surrounded by not only his fellow artists, but _art_ – music that resonates with the soul, paintings of gods and goddesses that grace their halls, ladies who paint their faces and have fistfuls of flowers dancing around their arms, and regalia encrusted with the most precious metals and stones. Scriptures that speak of golden history, dances that replicate the movements of waves, and equations that are built on tested proof. Past the point of description, Midorima looks and sees, regaining and giving up different pieces of himself to his landscape.

The candor he does possess leads to curiosity, then, as these things of beauty begin to interact with one another. This candor is also one only a select few value, and he finds himself having only acquaintances and never friends. He supposes that his words recognize ugliness too much, that people would not dream to hear the last of it at all.

When Kise Ryouta first speaks to him, it’s to ask what it’s like to have direction in one’s ambitions.

Midorima is clueless as to who Kise truly is at this point. His truth about Kise is one that everyone knows. Kise Ryouta, blessed by the god of youth and beauty himself, is the boy with flaxen hair and a charming smile. He is the sun personified, excelling in sports and in providing company. Everyone knows Kise Ryouta to be a thing of beauty, but even Midorima cannot see past the superficial.

“I don’t know what I want to be. I just aimlessly wander around, but you,” He looks at Midorima, containing the stars in his eyes, “You’re different from children our age. You chose a very different path from what was expected of you.”

“I do not think I can help you much in that regard.”

“I shouldn’t exist at all. Did you know that?”

Midorima looks at him with disbelief before compassion. It is strange to hear such words fall from the lips of one who is coveted by all. Kise looks away.

“Of course not. Forgive me, it’s a silly question. A silly thing to say altogether, much less to a complete stranger.”

Midorima sees the way Kise lets his feet dangle down and wags them. Past the vision, he is just a child.  

“You don’t talk very much.”

Midorima’s frown doesn’t grow, simply stays the way it already is. “I dislike talking.”

“I do too. Most of the time.”

“Do you ever think that people may dislike you?”

Kise seems perfectly taken aback with this question. However, when he does answer, it’s with laughter as his head throws itself back and he reaches to touch Midorima’s shoulder and shake it.

“Not when I think of how much I dislike people first.”

It is Kise’s honesty in private moments that makes Midorima stay, for the several other moments they spend together after that.

* * *

 

When things of beauty interact, Midorima comes to learn that the language of worship is desire.

Pleasurable sounds cannot always be obscured by walls, and there are some who do not make efforts to hide it. Midorima studies the phenomenon as a man of his craft rather than as a human of his disposition. Sexual intercourse, as it is so called, borders on instinct. Therefore, when he depicts acts of desire, he is always careful to know that it is nuanced, and varies from subject to subject, because desire is often communicated in different ways, from the briefest touch of hands to the self-surrendering act of dominance and submission. 

Even when war brews at their kingdom’s borders – perhaps especially because it is so – desire becomes more naked in form. Hushed whispers and longings uttered in promises. At age eighteen, Midorima begins to be aware of how there is no doubt Kise will be drafted.

He makes his first sculpture of Kise at that moment in time, and when Kise sees it, Midorima lets him look to his heart’s content.

“When the soldiers start burning the city, I do not wish to see you among the ashes, Midorimacchi.” Kise says. It’s a strange remark as always. Midorima wonders what connection it has to what Kise has just been privy to.

Kise explains. “I know you well enough... to know that you’ll stay with your damned creations even as everything goes down. This sculpture will not tell you that, as pretty as it is, but I will.”

 _And you will not be around to tell me, eventually,_ but Midorima lets those words die in his throat. Kise does not give him the chance to reveal them either, as he presses their lips together, playing with his tongue. In the silence and stillness of the studio, where the drop of a needle can be heard, the sounds they make are unbearably, brutally loud. Midorima, being pushed down by Kise, likes what’s happening, as strong hands wrap around his shoulders and tongue presses deeper into his mouth.

Midorima replicates what he knows, his body moving by itself as a hand slides down Kise’s member, feeling its shape within his hand. Kise moans into him as he breaks away from the kiss and buries his head in the crook of Midorima’s neck, moving his hips to help Midorima’s hand do its bidding.

“I want... w-want... haaaa...”

Kise then initiates by inserting three fingers into Midorima’s hole, conveying his wants wordlessly by jutting his fingers gradually. Midorima lets out a sharp breath, the hot breath fanning Kise’s cheek as Kise works his way in.

“This is nice, Shintarou.” Kise whispers, and Midorima is pulled to reality realizing that they’re no longer children, and that this is their way of saying goodbye. It’s an expression in its purest form. Midorima almost can’t speak as Kise adds another finger.

“Kise-“ The mere utterance of such a name, one only ever poorly masked with disdain, suddenly becomes on that is uttered with all sorts of want. They’re both breathing erratically as Kise pulls out, his fingers wet, as they slide against Midorima’s thighs. Kise kneels, until Midorima stops him and tells him to get behind. Kise complies.

“What do you desire, Shintarou?”

“... I... i-inside me...” He rasps, and Kise embraces him, his member teasingly brushing against the curve between Midorima’s buttcheeks. “I need you inside me, K-Kise...”

Kise closes his eyes from the blinding pleasure as he thrusts in, and soon, Midorima does too, no sound ripping from his throat as his mouth hangs open. This is not an instance where he studies the phenomenon as an artist. For once, he partakes in the act, and he bites his hand to refrain from making sounds, his teeth digging into the skin of his hand. He feels disgust at himself for accepting this, taking in all that is happening because he feels a sliver of certainty in the haze of conflict screaming inside him.

It is wrong, not because they are wrong, but because Kise should accept what he deserves, something beyond Midorima. Midorima, who has always considered himself apart the world that Kise resides in, suddenly finds himself colliding with its orbit, and he finds himself unwilling to let go, even though inevitably, he does.

And as he waits, he lets his hands do the work. They are skilled, skilled enough to turn fantasies into realities in that studio where nothing else matters, except his innermost thoughts materialized into stone and ivory.

* * *

 

When Midorima receives the news, he is once again in his studio. The soldier bursts into the doors, seemingly shaken from the clamour of the city streets. Midorima’s hands stop mid-creation, his stencil in his hand.  

“Midorima-san, Kise-san, he... he’s asked for you.”

The name sounds like a mistake. “You are sure?” The battle, for the most part, is over, but Midorima hears the thunder behind his ears as he takes in the news that Kise is back. As they run upwards, towards the palace, Midorima hears whiffs of hearsays, of the sky falling down to carry Kise in its arms, of a boy no older than fifteen or sixteen lifting Kise effortlessly and bringing him into the gates of their kingdom. A deity of sorts, they say, a miracle saving the city’s most beloved noble heir.

Midorima cannot fathom it until he sees it for himself. Kise smiles at him from the linen bed. A boy, with the sky in his hair and the ocean in his eyes – just as promised – watches silently. Midorima condemns himself for not recognizing the boy, but first places himself in Kise’s disposal, throwing himself at Kise’s feet, by his bedside.

“Hello, Midorimacchi.” In their exploration of pleasure, it is Shintarou, but Midorima finds that he prefers this somewhat, and its hold on familiarity between them. Kise’s head is bandaged, and there are wounds on his chest that smell of disinfectant, covered by more cloth bandages. His face is noticeably more sunken, from being scarcely fed by the reserves for the army. There are bags under his eyes, but when he smiles, Midorima fills in the rest of such features with all the times he has imagined it.

“It’s good to see you.”

“Did you remember my advice, Midorimacchi?”

“I never put it to use.”

“And I’m glad for it, in this case.” Kise laughed, but it was restrained, as he held a hand to his stomach, “Ah, Kurokocchi saved me. I’ve been here for longer than you think.”

Midorima whips his head towards the boy on the other side of the bed, and hearing the name, he cannot be mistaken. He knows who Kuroko is, without a doubt. The first question he asks is, “Why?”

Kise naturally does not take this well, exclaiming, “What’s that supposed to mean?!” with less of a struggle than one might expect, and Midorima is not surprised he’s still managing to muster energy, and he supposes it only makes sense because sleep has been beside him for a long time, as opposed to Midorima who rarely ever does sleep, but he looks to Kuroko for answers.

Kuroko seems to understand the question well enough, and he chooses to deflect it either way.

“I believe the correct response is to say ‘thank you’.” And he seems to say this not because he expects one from Midorima, but because it is to avoid giving Midorima the answer he wants to hear.

Midorima does a rare display of compliance, but it is one easily given as he inclines his head. “Thank you, for saving Kise’s life.”

At this, Kuroko offers a small smile of his own.

* * *

 

Kuroko has enough reason to linger through Midorima and Kise alone. Sometimes, when he isn’t there, he’s in some other corner of the world, in a well-kept museum or the debris of ancient ruins. He’s never far enough to be dissuaded from ever coming back.

“You’ve seen it? Midorima-kun’s most recent work.”

At the mention of it, Kise’s face shows signs of scrunching up. “I don’t know if he’s trying to spite me or smite me. It’s an altogether unflattering picture of me.”

“You dislike the idea of kneeling for someone?”

“I wouldn’t kneel for just anyone.” Kise says. His loyalty is hard-earned, as well as his profound respect. Kise is not mistaken that Midorima understands this, but not well enough to know better than showing such a sculpture in public. “Perhaps if I knew who it was, it wouldn’t be such an eyesore.”

“He showed the figure in public to spite me, Kise-kun.”

“Of course I’m the consequence,” Kise sighed, kicking himself up. “Of course.”

To the townsfolk, Kuroko looked just like anyone in the city. He did not have the prescient aura of a god. He seemed fragile in comparison to everyone else, his physique not doing wonders for such a misconception. However, Kise will never forget those arms that carried him across the battlefield, and for the most part, it is undisputed that such a misconception benefits them both.

“Affection is a slippery thing, don’t you think, Kurokocchi?”

“I never found it hard to grasp affection. It has a tendency of being quite possessive.”

“But not necessarily exclusive?”

“In varying degrees, too.” Kuroko mumbles. “There are many ways to love a person.”

“And how do you go about loving a person, Kurokocchi?”

* * *

 

Midorima steals glances and moments, and depicts stories through his craft. There is so much to be had as he remembers every curve, every slope, as he takes in every detail that lives within his imagination and handles it with care. Midorima has always put a bit of the real in his work. That is why when he makes a sculpture of dual proportions, it takes eternity upon eternity, because this is his life’s work.

\- His life’s frustrations, as he caresses a barren throat and cradles an exposed shoulder. Kise and Kuroko embracing each other, two very different kinds of beauty, a balance that Midorima does not see himself in. Almost miraculously, Kuroko does not visit his studio around that time. Perhaps he has, and Midorima simply hasn’t noticed. Kuroko is only noticed when he wants to be, even if he is a god.

In its own way, the given privacy is kind. Midorima does not need another voice talking in his head, about how this is a delusion of grandeur that has too much of himself in it as it is.

This is a work he declares unfinished. He stows it away, in a place where no one can lay eyes on it but him.

* * *

 

There are times that Midorima’s parents do coax him to stray from his studio, and in these days, he rigorously studies about the human anatomy at the palace and serves as an assistant medic, as beneficial as it is to his craft. Most of the time, however, he simply stays in some of the storage rooms to study on his own. He supposes it offers his father comfort to know that he is at least close to the medicinal field during these kinds of days.

He knows little of what herbs can heal what illnesses, except rudimentary knowledge that any adult can recite. He reminds himself that ginger is for dizzy spells, as Kise enters the storage room that Midorima is in, and all but drags him out.

“Kise-“ Midorima protests, already placing a hand over the one that’s dragging him, as he makes his displeasure known, “Where do you think you’re dragging me?”

“Out, of course.” Kise says simply, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. “The weather’s too perfect to not enjoy the outdoors.”

“I am here at my father’s behest-“ He hisses.

“Yes, and your mother scolded him for keeping you here. Your father also confided to me, quite implicitly, that you’re of little to no help anyway. You can ask them, if you so wish.” And with this, Midorima is all too reminded what a petulant child Kise can be sometimes, because the world seems to move around his finger, “It’s so rare that you’re outside the studio, and you know I don’t disturb you when you’re working on one of your sculptures.”

Midorima has to wonder if his father is wondering not only about his choice of career, but of his choice of friends too. “You have till sundown,” he relents. Kise nods, and though he doesn’t seem to be making a flagrant spectacle out of it, he looks pleased with himself.

They pass the halls of the palace, statues looking down at them, and eventually reach town. They pass the marketplace, the town square, and the trade stores, before Kise takes him to the borders where there is a lingering state of incompleteness. Kise takes him there, to an expanse of greenery and a flowing brook that separates them from a different, smaller town, ravaged at their expense.

There are signs of damaged trees and trampled grass, burnt from fallen torches, and with the blue overcast sprawling above them somehow gentler, the sun merely peeking through the clouds, even the wind stirs the quiet.

“I’m sorry, Midorimacchi.” Kise says, “To be honest, I dragged you out here because I don’t want to deal with these feelings alone.”

Midorima does not answer to this immediately. Deep down, he understands the mild irritation that comes with him being a replacement to Kuroko, and why it’s hard for him to understand that Kise definitely doesn’t think of it that way, even though he should.

“Feelings.” Midorima echoes, slightly doubtful, but as they take shade under the trees and Kise sits down, Midorima realizes this might benefit him, even if he intends it to be a fully one-sided exchange. “What makes today different?”

Kise sees the frown that settles on Midorima’s face when he asks, “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

“There is nothing to tell.”

“Sure there is.” Kise stretches his legs and plants his hands firmly behind him, looking up to the sky, “For example, has Kurokocchi been pestering you recently?”

“I would think you had an idea with regards to his whereabouts. What does this have to do with what you feel?”

Kise uses one of his hands to reach for Midorima’s, stalks of grass attached to it. They prick at Midorima’s skin, and he’s all too conscious about the warmth of Kise’s hand against his own. “Why, I miss Kurokocchi, of course! That’s not to say it’s everything, but it’s a big part of it.”

Midorima decides not to tarry along, so he decides to ask bluntly. “What do you feel about Kuroko?” There’s no displeasure in his voice – to everyone else, it would simply sound like curiosity.

The artist has to be content with looking at art other than his own.

“I love Kurokocchi,” Kise says sincerely, his eyes softening, “And I’m very grateful to him.”

And Midorima is about to refute Kise, to ask him if gratitude is enough to sustain his love, because if that is so, then Midorima, for all his conflicted feelings, also loves Kuroko, but Kise continues.

“Ask me how I feel about you, Midorimacchi.”

Midorima tries not to move his hand away from Kise’s whilst attempting to temper down the inner war of his thoughts. It’s become less quiet, and he feels disturbed. Kise picks a flower from the ground, with white petals and a small green stalk. Idly, he tucks it behind his ear.

Midorima is forced to stare at the display of beauty. It’s quiet and temporal. It reminds him morbidly, that one day, all this will fade away too.

“I am not about to repeat a question you fed me.” But he wants answers, and Kise seems more than willing to give them, taking whatever he had said as a ‘yes’, because he starts.

“You always did make me feel good about myself.”

 “As you should.” Midorima frowns. He knows Kise isn’t done.

“I desire every part of you,” Kise says. With hands and kness for feet, Kise prowls closer towards Midorima and takes hold of his hand, kissing it. When he sees Midorima’s lashes flutter a tad bit more than usual, Kise smiles. It’s not a smile that’s all-teeth, but instead, one that creeps beneath skin and makes itself known.

Midorima finds his breath caught in his throat as Kise’s golden irises stare up at him, reminiscent of gold and amber merging together.

Kise, well-aware of how Midorima’s mouth has parted open slightly, slides a few fingers down Midorima’s exposed arm. “The way you talk, the way you carve and trace, the way you look. I could go on forever, Midorimacchi,” He brings up the hand to Midorima’s cheek, smoothing down his jawline, “And maybe that’s the amount of time it will take for you to realize what I feel about you.” 

“Kise, this is hardly appropriate-“

Kise’s eyes flash dangerously. “Appropriate?” The way he says it is dripped in venom. He wants the word gone, and it’s uttered with such veracity that Midorima suddenly feels like he’s walking on needles and burnt embers. 

“Was I alone that day, then, when we bared ourselves to each other for the first time?”

When Midorima answers, it is with less resolve, but with an absolute certainty. He hears his voice wither, as he answers with one word. “No.”

The moment they look at each other, Midorima takes the chance to bring Kise’s lips to his own. He let his lips speak without words. Closing his eyes, the surreal element of it diminishes. This is something he had wanted. In more ways than one, he is disappointed in himself, but Midorima also finds that he doesn’t care as Kise reciprocates the kiss with just as much want. His hand finds its way to Kise’s hair, and he musses it up, feeling a strange surge of pleasure at the sight of Kise willingly giving into him so much.

He will look back to this moment and not regret it, he decides. Kise makes a faint humping noise as the kiss deepens. It is less desperate than their first time. Kise, unable to speak (words are all he’s ever known –) lets his hands travel too, feeling against the fabric that hardly do justice to Midorima’s lean build.

They stay like that for a very long time, kissing and tasting each other, branding themselves into their respective memories. As thoughts race in their mind, both have to wonder whether they share the same ideas, the same visions. Kise promises to himself they should do this more, because he cannot seem to get enough.    

Despite this, it is Kise who breaks away first, letting Midorima reserve his self-restraint even though in those moments, it seems to have been thrown aside.

Once they’ve broken away, Midorima pants in soft puffs, and his cheeks are tinged a rare shade of red. Kise finds it endaring that he’s struggling to even look, most likely still living in what they just had, what they just did.

“I suppose that’s enough of an answer for you.”

Kise does not resist embracing Midorima. With head bowed and hands clinging to Midorima’s sleeves, Kise loops his arms around Midorima’s from under, locking the back of his shoulders. This pulls them closer to each other, and Kise breathes in the scent of Midorima’s neck, then whispering in his ear.

 “The idols are not necessary if it can be made real, Midorimacchi.”

Midorima’s brows furrow. Something continuously nags in his mind. This does not add up as much as he would like it to, and it disrupts the moment he has come to terms with what he truly feels about Kise. While the truth does not bother him as much as it should – that he will have to share Kise’s affections with someone else – he has to ask.

“Does Kuroko know?”

Kise laughs, breathless, “Kurokocchi is many things, but oblivious is not one of them. I understand why he likes teasing you so much, though. It’s actually something we have in common.”

Midorima shakes his head, naming the feeling in his chest as relief. Something has been lifted from the weight he’s carrying, and he no longer wishes for the delusion to end. It can no longer even be called a delusion, as Kise curls up his side and leans against his shoulder, vocal and unabashed in his affections. Spending his entire life chasing the ideal, Midorima finds out that Kise has always been the proof that the ideal is most beautiful when it is made real.

* * *

 

Kuroko stands in the center of the sanctuary. He’s surrounded by his own creations, stowed away in a corner of the heavens where no one can find them if he does not wish anyone to. These are centuries of work, and he’s already filled hundreds of ghost museums. The god of the dead oftentimes will tell him that artists of all kinds and all walks of life ask for entrance to Kuroko’s collections, to the display of Kuroko’s life work.

But he never lets anyone in. In the end, there is something too private about showing his work, even though some are simply impressionist, imitations of reality through the eyes of a supposed god of art. No one has seen even those – he fears that seeing less personal paintings, they’ll feel like it isn’t anywhere near enough. They will always be left wanting for more.

This particular museum of sorts is dedicated to pieces revolving around war. In streaks of vivid red and earthy browns and dull golds, various scenes are depicted. The fall of empires, the rise of heroes, the triumph of tyrants, and the desolation of lovers, families.

When they say art is a reflection of reality, Kuroko knows that no matter how much love there is for the craft, the subject takes priority. The paintings are stained with a sadness that is all too familiar, because as a god who can only observe instead of engaging in combat, Kuroko can only move mountains with his subjectivity.

It’s why when one day, in the middle of a raging battlefield, when he hears the plea of a sculptor to protect his raison d’etre, Kuroko does not hesitate to pluck a golden boy from the battlefield and bring him home to heal from the scars that he has garnered.

The god of war, with all his battle prowess, does not stop the spectacle in front of his eyes. Humans will be humans, and they’ll stop when they’ve realized enough is enough. Kuroko understands it’s wrong to interfere, but he regrets nothing when Kise Ryouta opens his eyes and says thank you while cradled in his arms. All that, and a name.

“Midorimacchi...”

Kuroko’s next creation will be one of love, and it will be properly conveyed this time, the message just as transparent as the subject, who despite what he thinks, is all too easy to read.

* * *

 

The next time Kuroko visits is one Midorima is unlikely to forget.

His presence is felt in silence. He intrudes without any preliminary warning in the same way Midorima has come to despise, but this time, Midorima welcomes his presence, entranced by what lays before him. Even as Kuroko’s footsteps are inaudible behind him, he cannot look away from something in his studio that is not his own work, but has become _of_ it.

A faint ghost of a smile graces Kuroko’s lips.

“Is it to your liking?”

It is an audacious question when put into context. After all, in the sculpture of Kise and Kuroko, Midorima finds that he, himself, has been added to the picture. It is unmistakably him, his body carved into stone by Kuroko’s hands. Kise’s hand, which is loosely hanging down, just so happens to conveniently caress Midorima’s cheek. The sculpture of him has an undivided gaze, staring only straight ahead as he is surrounded by a god and a godsend.

“It is an unnecessary addition.”

Kuroko, however, knows better than to trust Midorima’s words.

“Kise-kun agrees with me. It’s a good addition and you do not know it.”

“You should not have wasted your talents on something so pointless, Kuroko.”

“I have centuries.” He says, and this time, the cheek he pats is Midorima’s, placing his hand just above Kise’s. He looks Midorima – the real Midorima – in the eye. “I can bear to lose a few weeks.”

He glides off the platform and holds a hand out to Midorima. Midorima stares dumbly at it.

“Kise-kun and I will talk you out of your misguided way of thinking.”

Midorima begs to disagree, then, as he can only imagine Kise telling him it’s great, he’s beautiful, but perhaps the price of Kise’s affections is never hearing his full opinion outside of praise. “He is not here with you.”

“Yes, but he is outside the studio.” Kuroko smiles, “And he is waiting for us.”

It starts with a god saving a man’s life for the sake of another man. It starts with a man doubting his place when he should never have. It starts when the sun is plucked out of the sky and wants both the patient moon and the reverent stars.

The story is written by three.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading whatever that was HAHAHAHAHAHA kudos for staying till the end :") I love kimidokuro.


End file.
